


I wanna be yours

by Queenofthefaceless



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Consensual Sex, F/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28090083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenofthefaceless/pseuds/Queenofthefaceless
Summary: Following the celebration of the Battle of Winterfell, things escalate (at last) for Sandor and Sansa.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 82





	I wanna be yours

He gulped, gesture unusual for a man his size and reputation. He couldn’t help it now though. For what must’ve been the first time in his entire life, he felt _nervous._

Nervous to even knock on the door. The door to what he presumed would be Sansa’s chambers. In all honesty, he had no clue as to why his instinct to follow her suit after they had shared one simple conversation at the table. Simple as it may have been, filled with a strange tension it was, tension that neither could decipher.

But he did knock eventually, heart in his throat, face however not disclosing any emotion whatsoever. Or so he was hoping. His eyes did widen upon seeing Sansa open the door. She said no words. She was not surprised either, much to his curiosity. It was her, after all, who gave him that bloody look back there. It was her who purposely held his hand. It was her who licked her lips whilst lingering at the damn table, looking him dead in the eyes, seemingly devouring him, swaying her hips as she walked away from him. She was, indeed, no longer a little bird. She was a woman, a gorgeous woman, no less: hair redder than the fire he was so afraid of, eyes bluer than ice, and lips so rose and somehow still pure, in spite of all that had happened to her. 

“None of it would’ve happened if you’d left with me,” he said again, this time as an opening act.

His voice revealed regret and anger without a doubt.

Sansa welcomed him in the chamber, closing the door behind them. She put her hands together behind her in a relaxed grasp, watching Sandor’s restrained movements.

“I know that,” she replied after a little while.

“If you would’ve come with me – “

“What then?”

Sandor went mute. He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. There must have been about a thousand, if not a million, things he wanted to say and do, but sheer fear paralyzed him. He was frankly terrified on acting on his supposed emotions, far too complex for a dog to comprehend. He was a big, ruthless dog, a killer.

And the woman in front of him managed to paralyze him. He felt no pain around her, no sorrow, no thirst for revenge, nothing but an unfamiliar warmth. He was frightened of being close to someone so beautiful and pure still, something so perfect in his eyes. He was terrified of being a monster in her presence. He was suddenly aware of the fire burning in the room, its light amplifying his scars, and he attempted to hide away that half of his face.

“I said there’s one thing that’ll make me happy,” he said avoiding her eyes.

“Yes. You said it’s your fucking business.”

This time Sandor looked right at her, shocked to hear her pretty mouth formulate such vulgarities with such tenderness. There was something irresistible about hearing her curse and it threw him off guard completely.

“Revenge. That’s what it is,” he continued.

“Is that why you came here now? For revenge?”

 _Oh, she was smart_ , Sandor knew it by then. Of course she would see right through him and his little white lies. He never lied to begin with. It must have been easy to spot that, he thought.

It was no revenge he was seeking in that chamber. Sandor looked at her with something more than mere admiration: _desire._ Utter desire, now consuming him entirely. He had no idea how to be gentle or kind even, but he wished to be those things for her. And for her only.

He lowered his head, hair vaguely masking his scars; Sansa walked up to him and placed her index on his chin, thus lifting his head so that she could see him for what he truly was: a tormented man who was frightened. A much too hurt and insecure man to speak properly and confess. 

“You’ve had quite something to drink.”

He nodded. He didn’t feel drunk, but he was starting to and he thought it had nothing to do with the ale and wine per se.

“I’ve never seen you sit so still and quiet,” she said.

“It’s your fucking fault,” he replied.

Sansa smiled so fast, you could miss it if you blinked. She was seeing him as a man that she could finally lust after, a good man at that, but Sandor was still petrified. He reckoned she might have been reluctant towards or even afraid of physical contact as it might bring back vile memories for her, but she did not stray away from him. She looked at him in ways Sandor had never been looked at, and he felt in a way he never felt; he was appreciated and _seen_.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I won’t,” he said, raspy voice breaking slightly, filled with a trembling emotion.

“I know you won’t hurt me. You’re the only one who never did.”

Sansa caressed his cheek, his eyes closing at the feel. It was so tender and affectionate. His eyes filled with tears under the closed lids, but kept them closed long enough for them to disappear. She felt her hand stroke his scars and huffed in a release.

“Can you feel that?” she whispered.

He opened his eyes, seeing her face so close to his that it all started to sense much like one of his dreams.

“Barely,” he replied, still in a mixture of pain and relief.

He saw Sansa tiptoe closer to his face so she could reach it and closer her own eyes, lips pressing slowly against his, this time real. She had imagined a kiss with Sandor Clegane twice in the last few years, maybe even a little more times, telling herself that it surely was real, out of pure desire for a man she could not and would not have, but now it had shaped into reality. Sandor closed his eyes again, giving into the kiss. He put one large hand on her waist, pulling her more in, while the other rested on the crook of her neck. He had thought of kissing her already too many times, he had lost count. But never in a million years would he had thought she would be the one to want it first. Or _at all_ , really. Or that she would ever want him.

The kiss deepened without his realization. It all started to escalate - in a way he never allowed himself to even dream of. His body was drawn to hers, as was his mind and spirit, along with his instincts. He had been despicable in the past when speaking about her, claiming he only wanted to fuck her bloody, no regards for her and her desires and needs, but now that she was kissing him, so deeply and intimately, he had forsaken everything he had ever said. He knew he was full of it anyways. He wanted to be gentle and worthy of her, even if every cell in his body forbid him to display proper emotions and human gestures. His weight began pushing against hers, dominating her with his height and backing her up against a wall, his hunger nearly exhausting him. He broke the kiss, all but breathless, and glanced at her.

“Are you sure?” he seemed to gasp. “Are you sure it won’t be too much?”

“You are the one who came seeking me, Sandor.”

“To be fair, you were the one who – who held hands and all that bullshit.”

Sansa smiled again, filling his heart with a joy he never truly experienced. He watched her remove her clothing items one by one, each revealing more and more of her smooth porcelain-like skin. He watched her lay on the bed, him unable to move. He started thinking of her breaking in with that Bolton cunt - how she must have cried for help, how she probably had wanted to die instead, how much pain she surely felt. He couldn’t find the strength to undress himself.

“Sandor,” she whispered longingly, almost entirely naked now.

“I don’t know how to be gentle. I’m not a gentleman. I’m – I’m a dog. It’s all I’ve ever been.”

It was undoubtedly the first time Sansa had heard him so vulnerable and honest. He seemed truly torn apart by whatever was running inside his mind and it was more obvious than ever to Sansa, right then and there, that Sandor was not just the Hound.

“You were broken in rough. Defiled. And I’m a killer, but I won’t break you even more.”

“You won’t hurt me, Sandor. You always told me so and I always trusted you so.”

It was also the first time she had ever acknowledged him by his first name, as a man and her equal. Not as a Ser, not as the Hound, but as her equal. And it made Sandor tremble.

Sansa removed all of her clothes, and there she was, he thought. As the Gods brought her into this world, all of her skin available before Sandor’s eyes. He looked away at first, out of habit, as if refusing the reality unveiling before his eyes, but when he did look at her, an unexpected hunger stroke him, powerful and burning. He took a few steps closer to the bed, large hands on his coat, still unsure if to remove it or not. Something still held him back.

Sansa stood up a little, enough for Sandor to see all of her, her beautiful womanly teats, her red hair untangled, falling down in cascades down her shoulders.

“You won’t hurt me,” she repeated, the trope still alive between them after all those years.

“I don’t want to, little bird. But I’m not gentle.”

“So you’ve said. But I can be. I’ll show you. I’ll teach you.”

“I would’ve reckoned you’re scared of any damned touch from anyone.”

“I’m here now, before you, and you are here. I am not scared. But it seems you are.”

“ _You_ scare me.”

“Why?”

Sandor did not answer right away. He still wanted to look at her with admiration, with glory and surprise, surprise at the woman she had become.

“I would do anything for you. I’d kill for you,” he confessed eventually.

Sansa smiled ever so kind, and with that, she stared him down until, unconsciously, Sandor bit his lower lip, gesture distinguishable underneath his grown beard, and removed his coat, shirt, trousers and breeches, climbing on top of her. Sansa noticed the many scars residing on his chest and arms, most likely results of all his battles and fights. Subsequently, he noticed her bruises and marks all over her body, knowing damn well where they have come from. 

“How can you look at a dog like me? Why?” he muttered.

“I’ve seen much worse than you. I’m all grown now. I know what I want and how to get it, and I can see what you want, too. Please don’t be afraid of me, Sandor. Don’t be afraid.”

She cupped both his cheeks, lips kissing his scars as well, to which Sandor could only respond with a very low grunt and sigh of relief. She then kissed his lips again, deep and passionate, and he took it as a good sign. One of his hands grabbed her inner thigh, carefully as if to not break a precious vase, and spread her legs enough for him to enter her.

“Tell me if you’re in pain. Hurt me if you must.”

Sansa nodded, gulping. This was the only time in her adulthood that she felt right during such an intimate act. She felt secure.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, her head tilted backwards as he made his first thrust slowly. It was good for him as well, easing his way back in. He had not been intimate with anyone for years and though he did not truly miss it or want it, Sansa Stark was a constant trigger for those urges of his. This was no whore from a cheap brothel though, not woman from the street desperate to be fucked by a knight from the King’s guard. This was the most incredible woman he had ever known. Beautiful and strong, yet delicate at the same time. She moaned softly with each of his thrusts; he felt completely drunk because of her. He failed to recover and he had barely began to fuck her. Her scent, her lips forming a perfect O each time she moaned, her teats moving back and forth alongside her body, her delicate hands, her smooth skin, vaguely scarred still, her curious fingers grabbing locks of his filthy hair, all those formed a picture that he now wanted to have in his mind until he would give his last breath.

Sansa had placed her hands on his strong arms, seemingly guiding him or showing him, non-verbally, what to do without hurting her. _I’ll show you_ , she said a few moments ago, and show she did. She was showing him how to be gentle, how to move slowly, though with a tremendous impact inside of her. He felt so good in her; yet a large man, he somehow was much to Sansa’s fit. She kissed him again mid-thrust, grunting as she felt something in her stomach burn, being afraid for a split second that something was wrong. She never had that feeling before. It was burning more and more and she felt the walls of her cunt enclosing around his cock.

“S-Sandor –!” she tried to warn him.

But what she then felt was no pain. She threw her head backwards, fingernails penetrating at the surface of Sandor’s skin. There was an intense wave of pleasure that she had no recollection of, but as her breaths spiraled out of control, Sandor took the liberty to increase the speed of his thrusts just a little so that he could get his high, and surely enough, not long after, right as he brought his face closer to hers, he felt it. He moaned in his well-known raspy voice and thrust his cock slower and slower. He put his forehead on hers, at last not afraid that she would see his scars.

“You look like you never came before, little bird,” he said examining her face thoroughly.

“I’ve never – what?”

Sandor chuckled, a smirk erupting from the corner of his lips, astonished yet again by her purity.

“When someone… fucks you good, that tingle you feel, the burning sensation, that’s called coming.”

Sansa giggled.

“Oh. Well then, I assume you do know your way around a lady.”

“It seems I still do.”


End file.
